devouring, always,
thirsting for words,
jonesing for dramatics,
yearning for redemption.

the keyboard pounds,
some inglorious Beethoven
composing some dilapidated
Archduke Trio, just for the hipsters

the action repeats. now. now again.
in spite of its supposed purpose
a mere reflex?
or the essence of self.

more more more, i say
why should not the skies erupt
with rivers of euphoria
and other useless miracles?

the city, overrun with ugly serpents, makes
the whole gambit crystalline:
permanent, frozen, and most of all,
clear, as a may afternoon, laid out on the Front Lawn.


so, always, never does it come.
the chalice spills forever,
and i must lap it off the ***** floor,
because why cry over spilt milk?

nothing grieves me heartily indeed
but that i cannot do much at all,
that i can do everything and don't,
that i need everything evil and beautiful.